


new to town (with a made up name)

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Literary References & Allusions, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Spencer Reid, Self-Discovery, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Transphobia, Very Minor, bc I said so, but present, no im not projecting onto my newest comfort char, probably, what are u talking abt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: “Did you know that in the Middle Ages parents gave their children middle names so that witches would never have their full names and that’s why we are conditioned to keep them private?” Reid asks, watching their parents’ faces for a reaction. Their father is, as always, disappointed and vaguely tired as he flips the page of the newspaper. Their mother stirs her coffee, her chin resting in her hand as she gazes out the French doors to the patio beyond. Reid frowns. “Why didn’t you give me a middle name? Did you want a witch to overpower me at some point?”“Don’t ask childish questions, Spencer,” their mother dismisses. “You know witches aren’t real.”or; Dr. Spencer Reid, on names.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Comments: 32
Kudos: 179





	new to town (with a made up name)

**Author's Note:**

> title from the lucky one by taylor swift :,)

Names have power. Reid learns this at a young age.

Reid is allowed to go to the library four blocks from their home by the time they are five years old. Their mother is supposed to go with them, per their father’s request, but she forgets sometimes, or sometimes she doesn’t want to, so Reid usually ends up going alone. They don’t resent her for it; it’s nice to be by themself sometimes. 

By the time they are seven, they have read every book in the library at least twice. During their fourth readthrough of  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , Reid glances up from the page and frowns. There is a feeling, lingering at the back of their mind, that they’ve always been aware of but have never cared to research. 

In Shakespeare’s own words: What’s in a name? 

Reid is fully aware, has been for several years, that they are not the son their parents perceive them to be; they’re not a  _ son  _ at all. They’re aware that they aren’t a son, aren’t a daughter, aren’t quite in between but rather removed from the binary spectrum entirely, but—it isn’t until they consider Shakespeare’s words, weigh them in their mind and roll them around on the tip of their tongue, that Reid realizes they don't like their name. 

_ Spencer.  _ It feels oddly masculine. Too masculine for a child who doesn’t feel masculine at all. 

They scour the library’s shelves for a book about true names, a book about the power a name holds, and then spend several hours re-memorizing every word printed on the pages. 

In Greek mythology, were it not for his hubris and his true name, Odysseus would not have had to face the wrath of his father Poseidon. In  _ Rumpelstiltskin,  _ the girl could never have freed herself without Rumpelstiltskin’s true name. In Scandinavian beliefs, creatures such as the Nix could be defeated by calling their true names. In Northern English folklore, boggarts should never be named lest they become unreasonable, uncontrollable.

The true name is said to be what speaks to one’s true nature. 

In that case, Spencer can’t possibly be Reid’s true name. Their true name can’t possibly be something as masculine, as suffocating, as  _ Spencer.  _

But if Spencer isn’t their true name—what is?

Later that evening, curled up underneath their mother’s arm and pressed up against her side as she reads silently, Reid quotes, “‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

Their mother hums, presses a kiss to the crown of their head. “Shakespeare,” she responds. “ _ Romeo and Juliet.  _ A classic, though not his best work.”

Reid sighs, and thinks about roses as they drift off to sleep.

-

Their mother has many names for Reid. Nicknames, mostly, nicknames and pet names she alternates between at random.

Her favorite, by far, is ‘sweet boy.’ She calls it whenever she needs Reid’s attention, when she puts Reid to bed, when she wants to read to them or hold them or just ask them for help with a task she can’t do on her own. Part of Reid likes the nicknames, likes the obvious love tucked behind them, squeezed between every letter and every syllable, and part of Reid wishes they could just ignore her. Wishes it didn’t twist to hear, didn’t hurt to respond to. 

They aren’t a boy. She just doesn’t know that. 

She has nicknames for their father, too, but those are far more explicit and she makes Reid promise not to repeat them whenever she slips and says them without thinking. Reid promises and silently makes a list of every name, every identity a person could possibly belong to.

Their own list is mostly made up by their mother. Spencer. Spencer Reid. Spencey. Sweet boy. Love. Dear. Buddy. Pumpkin. Cookie. Cupcake. Spen. Sweetie. Hon. Honey. 

Their father’s list is shorter. William. William Reid. Will. Bastard. Jackass. Motherfucker. Son of a bitch.

She cries at night, when she thinks Reid is asleep. Reid almost never is; their mind is too active to sleep as regularly as their mother hopes they do. She cries for the husband who has left her, the father who isn't there to help raise her child, the life she will never have that she likely dreamed of. Reid watches from the doorway of their bedroom, and thinks about  _ Jude the Obscure.  _

The eldest child killed his siblings and himself, under the impression that without them, without the burden of children and a family, their parents would’ve been better off. Reid isn’t sure if they think he made the right choice, but as they tuck themself back into bed amidst the soft sound of their mother’s sniffling, they ponder it. 

If Reid wasn’t who they were, would their father still have left? If Reid wasn’t  _ special _ , wasn’t  _ different,  _ would they be a normal family who has barbecues and goes for walks and eats dinner at the same time every night at the same dinner table in the same seats they always sit in? 

If Reid was normal, would their mother still be crying?

Reid doesn’t think Little Father Time had been right to kill himself and his siblings. They don’t think that was the only solution in the situation. They don’t think he made the right choice, they don’t think they would ever do something like that to their poor mother who cries at night when nobody is around to comfort her.

But the thought is still there.

-

Reid knows enough about movies to know that their high school and college experience is nothing like films such as  _ The Breakfast Club  _ or  _ Ferris Bueller’s Day Off  _ would’ve implied. 

In high school, instead of gaining new names, new facets to their ever-changing and frightening identity, they simply cease to exist. Nobody wants to befriend the skinny, gangly, awkward twelve-year-old infringing on their territory. Reid doesn’t belong with the high schoolers, and their cold, cruel eyes make sure Reid never forgets that. They do not give Reid nicknames. They do not further Reid’s identity and sense of self. In fact, none of them ever even talk to Reid. Only the teachers acknowledge them, and they all call them  _ Spencer.  _

Reid, whoever that is, does not exist in high school.

They have little hope for college, don’t even pretend to think college as a sixteen-year-old will be better than high school as a twelve-year-old. The only upside is that their college’s library is much larger than the ones in Las Vegas had been, with far more books for Reid to read and reread until the words are not only burned into their eidetic memory but constantly spilling off of the tip of their tongue, echoing in their ears. 

Poetry anthologies are in abundance at this library. Poetry anthologies and short fiction anthologies and memoirs and everything Reid could ever dream to read. Robert Frost is their favorite, his simple poetry reverberating in their mind hours after they have closed the tomes.

“‘Look me in the stars,’” Reid quotes, their voice barely audible as they trace the lines of their lecture notes. The only other noise in the room is the hum of the ceiling fan as it rotates around, around, around and back again. They trail off, not bothering to finish the poem as they find themself absorbed in their work. 

The fan hums, hums, hums. Around, around, around. 

If Reid allows their mind to slip away just enough, they can almost imagine that their fan is not humming, not making a mechanical noise in response to its motor functions but instead reciting poetry, reciting Robert Frost line for line.

_ The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  _ the fan says.  _ But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. _

_ And miles to go before I sleep. _

-

When Reid turns 18, halfway through college, they have their mother admitted. She does not go easily; she goes sobbing and begging to stay at her house, to stay with her things, to stay home, to stay with Reid. 

Reid, who hasn’t lived at home full time since they were sixteen. Which she doesn’t even seem to be aware of. 

It’s long past time for her to get the help she’s always needed, the help a ten-year-old, twelve-year-old, sixteen-year-old child cannot give her. The only reason Reid has waited this long is because it wouldn’t have been legal any earlier. 

It’s only after she’s gone that Reid registers how silent the house is without her. 

She was never very loud to begin with—neither of them are; Reid inherited their introverted-ness from their mother. But her quiet existence within the confines of the home had still given the building some life that it is distinctly lacking after she is taken away. Reid wanders the rooms, wondering how to shake the feeling that they are a ghost in their own childhood home. 

They look at her things, and they think about Tim O’Brien. In O’Brien’s short stories, the things they carried made the soldiers who they were. P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wristwatches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid. Those mundane everyday items were the pinnacle of individuality, an absolute necessity. 

Reid wonders, idly, what their mother would’ve considered a necessity. What  _ they _ would consider a necessity. What is it in this house that they need to survive? What is it that gives Reid personality, gives Reid the sense of self they’ve been looking for since the day they became self-aware enough to understand concepts like gender and true names?

In O’Brien’s world, the physicality of it all is less important than the emotions present in the story. What the characters are feeling, what the  _ readers  _ are feeling—that’s what makes O’Brien’s work a story. 

Is the same true for Reid? Is it less about the physicality and more about the emotion? Do the emotions they are feeling determine who Reid is?

Who is Reid, if they feel empty? Numb? 

If they have no true name and no emotions to set them apart, are they even a person? Do they even exist?

Reid gently curls their fingers into a loose fist, dropping their hand to their side. They wonder, somewhat hopelessly, if they will ever find answers to the questions ruminating in their mind. 

Who are they? Who are they going to be? 

Are they content with what they’ve done? 

Are they happy with who they are? 

Reid has always been a loner, and a part of them thinks that might be their ultimate downfall: In every book they’ve ever read, love and relationships are a fundamental part of the human experience. Not necessarily romance, but platonic and familial and parental love all working hand in hand to shape someone into the person they are. 

The one thing they need to find the answer to the question they’ve been asking for eighteen years is the one thing they just sent away to a mental hospital. 

How fitting.

-

Reid may not be the best at deciphering others’ emotions from their facial expressions, and they definitely aren’t the best at reading the mood of a room, but even they can tell that the other members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit don’t like them. At the very least, the others don’t trust Reid, which seems vital for a crime-fighting squad. 

It isn’t Agent Hotchner who introduces them, rather it’s Agent Jareau, who is kind and pretty and she smiles a little like Reid’s mother used to—a touch of sadness at the corners of it, but ultimately genuine. She leads Reid into the bullpen, points out the members of the team Reid will be joining. Reid notices that Hotchner and several other agents are out of their offices—they knew Reid was coming. The only one sitting at a desk is the one Jareau had called Agent Morgan. Agent Jareau smiles at them again, squeezes their shoulder, then clears her throat to get everyone else’s attention. 

At once, they all look to her. 

“Everyone,” she says, the smile audible in her voice, “this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s going to be the newest member of our team.”

Reid stifles the wince. The others look to them, sizing them up. There is skepticism in Morgan’s eyes, distrust in Hotchner’s. Gideon is the only one with a truly blank expression, no opinion of Reid immediately visible on his face. He’s also the only one Reid knows. The rest of them are uncharted waters, something to be wary of.

“How old are you, Dr. Spencer Reid?” Morgan asks, his voice steely. 

Reid stiffens, glances at Agent Jareau. She smiles and nods. “22,” Reid replies. Morgan’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. Even Hotchner, who seems chronically stoic, looks a little surprised. 

“Dr. Reid,” Gideon says, finally cracking his calm exterior to smile softly. He steps forward, reaching to shake Reid’s hand. “Welcome to the BAU.”

Hotchner recovers next. “Dr. Reid, I’m Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Morgan, and this is our Technical Analyst, Penelope Garcia.” He shakes Reid’s hand, his grip firm and secure. “You’ve already met Agent Jareau and Agent Gideon. I look forward to working with you.”

Reid lifts a hand to wave to the others. Penelope Garcia smiles sweetly and waves back, wiggling her fingers slightly. She seems nice enough; the bright colors she dons strangely put Reid at ease. 

Agent Jareau places a hand on Reid’s shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll walk you to your desk.”

-

On Reid’s fifth case with the BAU, they are the one who makes the final insight that helps catch the unsub. The plane ride back is quiet, most of them dozing or listening to music or just sitting quietly, trying to unwind after a three-day race to save a fourteen-year-old girl. 

Morgan claps a hand on Reid’s shoulder on his way back to his seat from the bathroom, following it with a, “Good work today, Pretty Boy.”

Reid is too tired to hide their flinch, fiddling with their hands as they murmur a quiet thanks. Gideon glances up from his book, but doesn’t say anything. Reid almost lets out a sigh of relief as Morgan takes his seat without faltering, almost allows themself to believe that nobody saw their hesitation, but then Hotchner speaks. 

“Reid,” he says, without looking up from the file in his hands. “Wanna tell us what that was about?” 

This gets everyone’s attention. Reid shrinks a little under their scrutiny. 

“Not particularly, no,” they say, hoping they aren’t stuttering too bad. There’s no point in pretending it hadn’t happened; Hotchner saw it, and nobody would believe them if Reid tried to play stupid. 

“C’mon, kid,” Morgan presses. “We’re your team. We’re here for you.”

Reid stares at him, and wonders if those words would hold true if they admitted what they want to, if they told the team who they are. 

They’ve never told anyone. They have nothing to gauge a potential reaction from. Nobody goes into an experiment without prior research. 

But—this is their team. Wouldn’t it be better to be honest now, than to have it all fester for months or years as Reid keeps their mouth shut and their feelings locked away?

“You can talk to us, Reid,” JJ says earnestly, honestly. 

Reid presses their lips into a thin line, tugging nervously at their fingers, before they finally blurt, “I’m not a man.” The plane is impossibly silent. Reid swallows thickly, backtracking. “Th-that is to say I’m not—um—I’m not a boy? So ‘pretty boy’ isn’t an entirely accurate description of me.”

Hotchner speaks first. “You’re not a man,” he says slowly, as if he’s trying to make sure he heard properly. Reid nods. “What are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Ah,” Reid says, their voice wavering. This is significantly harder than they’d been anticipating. “I’m—uh—it’s called nonbinary? It means my gender doesn’t fall into the two binaries you generally know of. Neither male nor female nor in between but something—something else entirely.” They hesitate. “Also I—I generally prefer to be referred to using singular they/them pronouns.”

There is silence on the jet for several moments, before Hotchner clears his throat. “Alright. Thank you for telling us.” 

A weight lifts off of Reid’s chest, and suddenly it is much easier to breathe. JJ is still smiling at them, Gideon’s eyes are still warm, and Morgan reaches forward to clap a hand on Reid’s shoulder affectionately. Nobody hates them, and though it had been hard to get through, the spine-tingling relief that follows their coming out feels better than anything Reid’s ever experienced. Their heart swells in their chest as a soft smile tugs at their lips, and it’s all they can do not to cry. 

They’ve always wondered if there was a place in the world for them to be themself, their  _ true  _ self, and maybe—maybe it’s here. Right here, on a jet back to Quantico surrounded by friends who love them that they love in return. 

Maybe this has been their true nature all along. 

Unbidden, Ray Bradbury’s  _ All Summer in a Day  _ comes to mind. The poor girl had been locked in a closet, forbidden from seeing the bright, bright light of the sun as it passed for the first time in seven years. 

If only she hadn’t been in that closet, she would’ve been happy. She would’ve seen the sun.

Reid turns to gaze out the window. It’s night time beyond the walls of the jet, but somehow Reid feels as though the sun is shining directly onto their face, warming them from the inside out.

-

There’s a gift bag on Reid’s desk when they arrive at work in the morning. Reid glances around, but the rest of their colleagues are either not in yet (Morgan) or not paying attention (Elle). Reid removes their messenger bag and sets it on the desk, sitting down in their desk chair before taking the bag and pulling out the top layer of tissue paper. 

A small envelope sits innocuously among even more tissue paper, which Reid reaches into the bag and removes. They open the envelope after a small struggle with the sticker seal, and find themself looking at a greeting card. It’s one of the greeting cards one might see on display at a gift shop, a cute animal picture on the outside with a blank inside perfect for a custom message. Reid turns the card over in their hands before they unfold it to read the message. 

A loopy, cursive scrawl in glittery gel pen ink is what greets Reid inside the card. Reid scans the card, committing the words to memory. 

_ No matter who you are, you’ll always be our junior genius. I love you, baby brainiac. _

It doesn’t take an IQ of 187 for Reid to figure out who’s responsible for the card, for the giftbag. They stifle a grin, glancing once over their shoulder in the direction of Garcia’s office, before they reach further into the bag to find what it is she’s wrapped in tissue paper for them. 

It’s a small, rectangular enamel pin wrapped in four layers of tissue paper—one yellow, one white, one purple, and one black. The pin itself is barely larger than Reid’s thumbnail, a small pin of the nonbinary pride flag. Reid grins at the sight of it, their smile so wide it feels as though it could split their face. They fasten the pin to the front of their cardigan, a swell of pride and glee flowing through them when they look down at it. 

Mentally, they add  _ junior genius  _ and  _ baby brainiac  _ to their list of names, their list of identities. For the first time in possibly their whole life, the lengthy list doesn’t feel so frightening, so worrying. They don’t have to have just one name—maybe it isn’t one true name that speaks to a person’s true nature, but the amalgamation of every name they’ve been called, everything that they are.

And right now, in this moment, they are Reid: FBI Agent of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Right now, in this moment, they are Reid: nonbinary, proud. Right now, they are loved. And they have the pin to prove it.

-

Gideon addresses the letter to  _ Spencer,  _ which makes it feel even more like a kick in the face.

-

“Spence, quit moving,” JJ murmurs, tightening her grip on Reid’s hand in an effort to still them. Reid falls silent for a moment, actively trying to stall their fidgeting, before they resume conversation with Garcia. She’s talking at the moment, telling Reid all about some video game she’s been into lately, and Reid is doing their best to focus on what she’s saying but something smells like cinnamon in JJ’s apartment and Reid is trying to figure out what it is.

“Okay,” Garcia says, “Baby brainiac, you haven’t been listening for the past five minutes.”

“That’s not true,” Reid refutes. “I’ve been listening. I just haven’t been focusing or absorbing the information.”

Garcia and JJ exchange glances, an amused smile on Garcia’s painted lips. “So, not listening,” she concludes. “Got it.” 

Reid huffs, half-pouting.

“What’s on your mind?” JJ asks, using the tip of her thumbnail to tidy up the polish on Reid’s index finger before moving onto the next. 

Reid watches her work for a few moments, before they say, “It smells like cinnamon. Is that new?”

JJ pauses and glances up at them, at the same time Garcia takes a deep inhale through her nose. 

“Y’know, they’re right,” she observes. “Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” JJ replies. “Last I checked, my apartment didn't smell like cinnamon.”

Garcia grins. “Okay, which one of you got a new perfume?”

Reid shifts. “It wasn’t me. I don’t—I don’t like that stuff.”

JJ rolls her eyes at Garcia. “My perfume smells like roses, thank you very much.”

“I know, baby, and it’s flawless,” Garcia replies. “Just like God Herself is jealous of my berry meadow scented perfume.” Reid snorts, watching as JJ tilts their hand this way and that, trying to make sure she didn’t miss any spots. Once she deems her work satisfactory, she lowers Reid’s hand onto the paper towel currently resting across their lap and caps the nail polish bottle, humming a gentle tune under her breath. 

“Try not to move too much, okay?” she says. Reid nods. JJ grins and reaches forward to ruffle their hair before she turns to Garcia. “You’re next. Got a color picked out?”

Garcia brandishes four bottles of neon polish: one pink, one orange, one yellow, and one green. “Make my magic hands as bright as your smile, light of my life.”

JJ laughs and kneels down on the floor in front of Garcia, taking the neon pink from her and shaking it. The three of them lapse into easy silence, quiet music playing from the speaker of JJ’s radio. The cinnamon scent lingers, and Reid wonders what it’s caught on, where it’s coming from.

A few minutes later, a gentle knock on the door draws Reid out of their thoughts. They glance down at JJ and Garcia, both of whom nod toward the door. 

“Careful with your nails,” JJ calls, as Reid gently places the paper towel on the couch cushion and stands up, crossing to open the door. Prentiss stands on the other side, bundled up in a peacoat and a pale blue scarf that looks closer to lavender than it is to teal. A whiff of her perfume reaches Reid’s nose and—she smells like vanilla and cinnamon. 

“Hello,” Reid greets, stepping back to allow Prentiss to step into the apartment. She smiles softly, removing her scarf and tucking it into the pocket of her coat before she hangs the coat on the rack between Garcia’s and JJ’s. 

“Hey,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring anything, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with alcohol.” 

JJ smiles widely at the same time Garcia chirps out a cheerful greeting. 

Prentiss glances around. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Oh, no,” JJ replies. “Babies and Baddies night has no time constraint.”

“The party doesn’t start ‘til you walk in, Emily,” Garcia pipes up. Prentiss laughs, setting the bottle of—it looks like champagne, even though the four of them aren’t celebrating anything—on JJ’s kitchen counter before she makes her way into the living room and sits down on the couch. Reid follows her, taking their seat again and replacing the paper towel on their lap. 

“So,” Prentiss starts, “What do we do at a—what’d you call it? Babies and Baddies night?”

Garcia hums. “It’s more like baddies and one baby,” she says, pointing to Reid with her free hand. Reid lifts their hand in an awkward wave as Prentiss glances at them. “They’re the baby. We’re the baddies.”

“Wow,” Prentiss says, still smiling. “I love it. What do we do?”

“This, mostly,” JJ replies. “Paint nails, gossip, watch trashy rom-coms. We do almost everything you would see at a cliché high school chick flick sleepover, minus the pillow fights.”

“Although, Garcia did throw a pillow at me once,” Reid adds. 

“You deserved it,” Garcia retorts. 

“I’m an angel who’s never done anything wrong ever in their life,” Reid says, smiling. 

“They’ve got you there,” JJ says, grinning at Garcia. Garcia pouts. 

“How dare you use your adorableness for evil,” she laments. Reid just hums, relaxing against the back of the couch.

Prentiss, laughing, says, “Dr. Reid, I mean this in the nicest possible way—I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

Reid nods, fiddling with their hands. JJ clears her throat, and Reid lays their hands flat against the paper towel again. “I usually pretend not to just to see that vein in Morgan’s forehead bulge from how frustrated he gets.” They swallow. “Also—you can just call me Reid.”

Prentiss laughs openly, before she sobers and offers Reid a genuine smile. “Alright then. You can call me Emily.” Reid nods, smiling. Emily glances around the room, observing JJ as she paints the second coat on Garcia’s nails, before she stands and offers a hand to Reid. “C’mon,” she says. “There is a distinct lack of baked goods at this babies and baddies night.”

Reid stands, taking her hand and allowing her to lead them into JJ’s kitchen. 

“Don’t worry, JJ, I’ll make sure their nails stay flawless!” Emily calls. To Reid, she says, “Are we feeling cookies or cupcakes?”

“How do you know JJ will have the ingredients?” Reid wonders, tilting their head to the side. 

Emily shrugs. “Everybody has baking ingredients.” 

“I don’t,” Reid says. 

Emily turns to look at them. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Reid furrows their eyebrows. “Really? In our line of work I would’ve thought you’d heard much sadder than that—that’s actually rather mundane compared to some of the—”

“Reid,” Emily interrupts. “I was kidding.”

“Ah,” Reid says, shifting awkwardly. “Sarcasm. My mortal enemy.” They clear their throat. “You know, I’ve looked—it turns out there aren’t any textbooks on sarcasm.”

Emily chuckles. “That’s okay. Your literalness is kind of endearing.”

“ _ Kind of? _ ” Garcia hollers from the living room. 

Emily pats Reid’s shoulder again. “Go on and sit down,” she says. “No offense, but I don’t trust you in the kitchen.” 

“Why?” Reid asks, hopping up to sit on the counter nonetheless. “It’s just science.”

Emily stares. “That’s why.”

As Emily sets to work, Reid watches her bustle around the kitchen preparing cookie dough. Behind them, they can hear Garcia and JJ gossiping about something—probably Rossi’s latest pair of atrocious boots (just because they’re Italian leather doesn’t make them stylish). Smiling softly, Reid inhales deeply and feels the scents of cinnamon, vanilla, roses, and berries all mingle together, and it shouldn’t smell good, shouldn’t be nice because none of those things go together, especially not all four mixed, but—

It smells like home.

Their identity is not in question here. Their name doesn’t matter here. Here, they are Reid, and they are loved, and they are warm and safe and  _ home.  _ With purple polish painted on their nails and flour in their hair from Emily’s baking, with soft music playing in the background as the soundtrack to JJ and Garcia’s gossip session, with a pleased smile on their face and a pleasant warmth in their gut they haven’t felt in many years—

Reid thinks they finally understand what Pliny the Elder meant when he said that home is where one is emotionally attached. Layman's terms: home is where the heart is.

Because they do not live in this apartment; they don’t even live in this neighborhood or on this side of town. Their house, their own apartment and their own bed is miles away from here. And still, somehow, inexplicably—they are the most  _ home  _ they have ever felt. 

It’s kind of nice. They like this feeling.

-

Reid stirs from where they’d fallen into a doze on Garcia’s couch, only to find that Garcia and Morgan are fast asleep as well. They sit up, wincing at the twinge of pain in their knee, and glance around. The title screen for the movie they’d been watching is blaring on an endless, minute-long loop, though the TV’s volume has been turned down to near silence. A quick glance down tells them that Garcia has fallen asleep slumped on top of their side, her hand loosely clutching the baggy fabric of Reid’s cardigan. As awareness slowly returns to them, Reid realizes that it isn’t a twinge of pain in their knee that woke them—it’s a wave of excruciating pain that practically  _ burns _ for how much it hurts _.  _ Their knee doesn’t act up as much as it did in the initial weeks following their injury, but when it does, it hits them like a freight train. Reid hisses, inhaling sharply through gritted teeth. They look around, quickly, before spotting a throw pillow on the floor that they grab and carefully slide under Garcia’s head to keep from waking her. Gingerly, they drag themself to their feet and hobble down the hall into Garcia’s bathroom, closing and locking the door behind them. 

Reid awkwardly maneuvers themself to reach under her sink, grabbing a spare rag and soaking it with icy cold water. They roll up their pant leg, perching themself on the side of the bathtub, before gently pressing the rag to the area of their knee that hurts the worst. Even the slightly added weight of the rag is enough to make Reid’s vision go white, as they gasp and white-knuckle the edge of the tub. 

“Why now?” they lament, blinking back tears. The only worse time for a bout of pain like this would be while they are actively out on a case, but in this minute all they can think is how much this sucks.

At once, they become aware of the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway toward the bathroom, and they curse under their breath. Pushing off of the tub and gripping the wall for balance, they begin to hobble their way toward the door, at the same time someone knocks softly three consecutive times. 

“Kid?” Morgan’s sleep-addled voice calls. 

Reid grunts. “Uh—just a sec.”

Abruptly, the floor rug slips out from beneath their foot and Reid crashes to the ground, sending white-hot pain rocketing through their leg starting from their knee. It’s all they can do not to scream, though they aren’t able to suppress a whimper. 

Morgan knocks again, a bit louder this time. “Kid,” he calls, his voice a tad more urgent. “Everything okay in there?” 

Reid starts to push themself to their feet, but stops when another wave of pain shocks its way through their leg. They drop back to the floor, letting out a strangled yelp. 

“Reid,” Morgan says. “Talk to me.”

“I—fell,” Reid grunts, their knee twinging again and prompting a pained gasp from them. 

Morgan is quiet for a moment. “Do you need help?”

“Probably,” Reid replies, reaching behind them for the wet rag that’s gone lukewarm by this point. The compress still relieves some of the burning pain, so Reid doesn’t lament the lack of cold. “But the door’s locked.”

“I’ll see if Garcia has a key,” Morgan starts.

“No,” Reid blurts, too quickly. “I don’t—I don’t wanna—I don’t want to wake her.”

“She won’t mind,” Morgan starts, but Reid doesn’t let him finish. 

“I know,” they say. “Just—give me a second.”

Several long seconds pass, in which Reid steels themself to stand again, leaning heavily on the bathroom counter as they drag themself over to the door and turn the lock before collapsing back against the counter, sliding slowly to the floor. Morgan steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind himself. He kneels down beside Reid, his hands raised but still. Reid recognizes that face—he wants to help, but doesn’t know how.

“Kid,” Morgan starts. “What happened?”

“It’s acting up,” Reid says. “I thought—ah—I thought I’d be fine to take care of it myself.”

Morgan frowns. “You should’ve asked one of us.”

Reid squeezes their eyes shut. “I told you,” they say. “I thought I was fine.” 

Morgan sighs. “I know you did, kid. Just—let me help, okay?”

Reid hesitates, then nods. Morgan takes their hand and pulls them to their feet, very carefully keeping all weight off of Reid’s injured leg. Once they’re both standing, he lifts Reid to sit on top of the bathroom counter, crouching back down to roll up Reid’s pant leg. He picks up the wet rag that’s been abandoned on the floor, running it underneath cold water again to chill it back to a cooler temperature. Once finished, he places it gingerly on Reid’s knee, murmuring an apology in response to Reid’s hiss of pain. 

“Alright, now, trust me on this,” he says, lifting his hands and cracking his knuckles. Reid gazes at him half-curiously, half-warily. “It’s probably gonna hurt at first, but it should make you feel a bit better.”

He waits, his hands hovering about Reid’s leg, for them to give him a nod of approval. Then, he lowers his hands the rest of the way and his touch is painful, just as he said, but he slowly begins to massage Reid’s leg in the same way their physical therapist used to do for them. Reid could never figure out how to do it on their own, but Morgan’s right—it does make them feel better. 

“Y’know, I never really asked,” Morgan starts. Reid lifts their eyes to look at his face instead of their injured leg. “How come nobody around the BAU calls you Spencer? I mean, not even Gideon, and you two were pretty close.”

Reid is quiet for several moments. “Nobody ever wanted to,” they start. “And—I don’t want them to, either.”

Morgan furrows his eyebrows. “How come?”

Reid can feel themself tensing, curling up and shying away. It’s only until Morgan lifts a hand to gently nudge their shoulder that they relax slightly from the hunched position. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “You don’t have to hide here.”

Reid bites their tongue. Several moments pass in silence, before they finally sigh, and say, “It’s because I don’t like my first name. It’s too—” They break off, wrinkling their nose.

“Hey, hey,” Morgan says, placing one hand on Reid’s shoulder, the other curling beneath their chin to ever so gently tilt their head up to make eye contact with him. “That’s okay. It’s  _ your  _ name. You get to decide what it means to you.”

“I don’t want to be Spencer,” Reid whispers. 

“You aren’t,” Morgan declares. “You are exactly who you want to be. Nobody else gets to decide your identity for you.”

Reid squeezes their eyes shut, not willing to let Morgan see them cry. How pathetic would it be to cry over something like this, anyway?

“Kid,” Morgan says, squeezing their shoulder. “ _ Reid.  _ Look at me.”

Reid opens their eyes reluctantly. Morgan smiles softly.

“There they are,” he says. “There’s that insufferable genius.” When Reid chuckles softly, Morgan’s smile widens. “Reid, listen to me. You get to decide who you are. Your name, no matter what it is—it doesn’t define you.”

“Okay,” Reid breathes. “Okay.”

“Y’know, I don’t really know a lot about your childhood,” Morgan starts, “but I get the feeling that you’ve spent a lot of time alone.”

Reid nods, laughing humorlessly. “What gave me away?”

Morgan chuckles. “The thing is—you know that you're not alone anymore, right? We’re here for you. The  _ real  _ you. Whoever that might be.”

Before they’re even fully aware of it, Reid surges forward and throws their arms around Morgan, pulling him in for a tight hug. Morgan grunts, stumbling slightly, but slowly lifts his arms to reciprocate the embrace, as Reid tries in vain to stifle their soft crying. 

After a few moments, Morgan pulls away. “You ready to head back to the living room and get some sleep?”

Reid nods, allowing Morgan to help them back to where they’d been sleeping on the couch. Garcia is still exactly where they’d left her, snoring softly with her head leaning against the pillow. Morgan lowers Reid into the more spacious section of the couch he’d been sleeping on, before gently lifting Garcia’s head and taking Reid’s old spot. He smiles at Reid before settling in to sleep. Reid falls asleep, and dreams of warmth.

-

The local detective does not like Reid. They can tell, upon the first meeting, that this particular detective is not fond of Reid’s behavior. He doesn’t like that they ignored the handshake he offered when the introductions occurred, and he doesn’t seem to like the way Reid keeps nearly everyone at a distance. 

But it’s not a big deal, so Reid dismisses it and follows the rest of the team into the back room of the station set aside for them to work in. Morgan and Rossi are sent away to the crime scene, Hotch and Prentiss to the M.E., leaving Reid and JJ to work within the station and coordinate with the officers. The detective stands on the other end of the table, frowning at Reid. 

“Alright, so,” JJ starts, approaching the white board to begin putting up evidence and crime scene photos. Reid casts a lingering glance at the detective before they follow her over. “How would the unsub get the drop on someone like this? Especially someone who, according to family, was  _ always  _ hypervigilant, bordering on paranoid?”

“Alcohol?” the detective suggests. “She could’ve been inebriated.”

Reid furrows their brow. “According to family and friends, she was constantly aware of her surroundings and never drank in public.”

“How do we know the family isn’t lying?” the detective challenges.

“Family or friends who want justice for a lost loved one typically don’t lie about something like that,” JJ says, a muscle above her eye twitching. She’s detected it, too, then. 

The detective crosses his arms over his chest. “Even still,” he starts, “it’s a small town. Everybody knows everything about everybody. And the victim’s—you know. Not a she. So this was just a hate crime waiting for happen.”

Reid stiffens. JJ whips around, vitriolic anger painted across her features. 

“Excuse me?” she demands. “The victim is a  _ she,  _ no matter what your idiotic, transphobic, micro-brain might think, and this was not a ‘hate crime waiting to happen.’ This is a tragic injustice that we are here to solve, it’s our  _ job  _ to solve, and if you aren’t going to offer any actually  _ helpful  _ information, then you can leave us to do this ourselves.” 

A beat passes. The detective scowls, shaking his head. He shoots Reid one last glare and spins on his heel, heading for the door. 

JJ scoffs, watching him go. “God. Some people really need to get their heads out of their asses,” she mutters, turning back to the board. Reid says nothing, turning to the board as well. “Hey,” JJ starts. “You okay?”

Reid shifts. “Me? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, I just—don’t like these cases.” 

JJ hums. “I know. But we’re all here for you, remember? You’re not alone.”

“I know,” Reid says. 

“Spence,” JJ starts. “Look at me. What’s wrong?”

_ Spence _ . Something about it feels odd—they don’t hate the nickname, the same way they hate Spencer, or any variant their mother used to call them. Something about Spence feels more open, feels less suffocating. _Spence_ feels much softer than the sharp edges of _Spencer_. 

They don’t mind being Spence.

Reid hesitates, pressing their lips into a thin line. “He was looking at me funny,” they admit. “Like I’m lesser, or something. I know I’m not exactly quiet about my eccentricities, but still—am  _ I  _ just a hate crime waiting to happen?”

“Of course not,” JJ says immediately. “Don’t listen to that jackass. Everything he said came from a place of bigotry and idiocy.”

“Everything would be a lot easier if I were a man, though,” Reid tells her. “I’d never have to be on the receiving end of a look like that.” 

“Maybe,” JJ replies. “Or maybe they’d find something else to dislike about you.”

Reid laughs humorlessly. “Comforting.”

“Spence,” JJ says, “the hate isn’t the point. The point is that people like that will never go away. But they don’t  _ matter.  _ Because the people that love you will always accept you for exactly who you are. No matter who that is.”

Reid is quiet for a few moments. JJ nudges them, before wrapping an arm around them and pulling them in for a side hug. They lean their head on top of hers, gazing at the evidence board. 

“Small towns,” they murmur. 

JJ lets out a breathy laugh. “They never change, do they?”

-

Reid wakes from a doze on their couch only to find that the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the apartment draped in darkness and shadows. The poetry anthology they’d been reading has fallen onto their chest, the spine creased and the pages curling. Outside the window, the world is dark apart for the city lights, a menagerie of neon shop lights and signs and the yellow glow of a lamplight peeking through the windows of office buildings, apartment buildings, homes. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares.

Sitting up, Reid sticks a ribbon between the pages to mark their spot and closes the book, tossing it gently onto the coffee table. They reach for their phone, which has been buzzing quietly for a few moments now. A quick glance at the screen tells them that the group-chat is pinging, Morgan and Garcia currently engaged in an argument. A text from Rossi comes in, letting them know that he’s waiting outside to pick them up for the dinner Garcia’s been planning for months. Reid grabs their bag and their cardigan off the back of the armchair where they’d left them and heads over to put on their shoes. 

For a moment, they can’t remember where they’d left off in the poetry anthology, but then they remember—Robert Frost.  _ A Question.  _ One of their favorites.

Reid shoots Rossi a text that they’ll be out in a minute, laughing at the complaint Rossi sends back. They tug on their cardigan, catching sight of their reflection in the window pane as they pass. At first sight, they don’t recognize it as themself—the person they are looking at seems content. There’s a light in their eyes they’ve never seen before. The person—whoever it is—is full. Full of love, full of contentment, full of everything good Reid’s never had. 

They stall in their movements, gazing at their reflection.

Who is that person?

Reid rifles through their mental list of names. Their identity has to be in there somewhere, the answer to their question has to be there. Every nickname they’ve been given cycles through their mind, starting with their mother’s and ending with junior genius, with kid, with baby brainiac, with Spence. 

Which one is it? Is it even a single one of them?

A beat passes, and then Reid realizes abruptly that it isn’t any one thing. Their true name has never been just one thing. Their true name is everything they are, the amalgamation of everything their friends call them, every name they've ever been given, all that they are and all that they were and all that they will become.

Spence. Baby brainiac. Kid. 

Reid . 

Their phone chimes, drawing them out of their thoughts and reminding them where they are, where they’re going. They grab their bag off of the nearest table and head for the door, pulling it open as they text Rossi that they’re on their was down. As they scale the stairs, Robert Frost’s  _ A Question  _ comes to mind, its simple four lines repeating on a loop in their mind. It almost seems like the very world around them is reciting the poem, the words hanging off every movement, every noise.

_ Look me in the stars,  _ the evening wind whispers. 

_ And tell me truly, men of earth,  _ the humming furnace adds. 

_ If all the soul-and-body-scars,  _ the cars outside murmur.

And Reid’s own soft footsteps finish:  _ Were not too much to pay for birth.  _

When Reid finally makes it to Rossi’s car, Rossi is scowling at them through the passenger window. “Took you long enough,” he huffs, but Reid can tell—he doesn’t really mean it.

“Sorry,” Reid tells him as the car pulls away from the curb. “I fell asleep.”

“Figures that the one time you finally listen to us and get some shut-eye is when it’s most inconvenient for me,” Rossi gripes. 

Reid laughs freely, openly. The warmth of contentment burning in their chest is foreign, the tingling of love in their fingertips a strange sensation. It’s new, it’s strange, it’s all so  _ unusual,  _ but—

Reid kind of likes this feeling. 

“Have you ever read Robert Frost?” Reid asks, over the low and sultry tones of the Frank Sinatra CD Rossi has playing through the car radio.

Rossi glances at them quickly before refocusing his attention on the road. “In high school, maybe. Why?” 

Reid hums. “Just curious.” 

They close their eyes, allowing the regulated warmth in the car and quiet music to lull them back into their doze from earlier, the words of  _ A Question  _ echoing in their mind. 

If all the soul-and-body scars were what it takes to bring them here, Reid thinks they’d endure it all a thousand times over to feel this warm, this safe, this loved. 

This  _ right _ . 

They’ve never liked their first name. Always felt odd, felt wrong, felt that the first name printed on their birth certificate expected them to be someone else, someone they weren’t. 

But here, riding in the passenger seat of Rossi’s car on their way to meet the rest of their friends—the rest of their  _ family— _ for a dinner Garcia’s been planning for months—

Reid thinks that maybe their name was never what defined them. 

“What’re you thinking about, anyway?” Rossi asks, drawing Reid out of their thoughts. “I can hear the cogs turning even without looking at you.”

Reid is quiet for a moment. “Did you know the “Rat Pack” Frank Sinatra was famous for being a part of never actually called themselves the “Rat Pack?” They preferred to be called “the Summit,” after a meeting of world leaders in Paris.”

Rossi pauses, before he chuckles and shakes his head. “Never change, kid.”

Reid blinks. “Okay,” they say, smiling softly. “I won’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am: soft
> 
> disclaimer i know the nonbinary flag didnt exist until 2014 but i can have a little historical inaccuracy in my comfort fics. as a treat
> 
> uhhh i consumed like eleven seasons of criminal minds in a month and reid is now my comfort character so obviously an nby reid fic was inevitable. i hope i did all the characters justice ;;
> 
> as always, talk to me on [tumblr](https://fake-charliebrown.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/fakecharlieb), or check out my [carrd](https://fakecharliebrown.carrd.co/)


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